The Bancroft Strategy by Robert Ludlum

business suits, evening dresses, weekend wear, every hue of blue and peach and beige.
    Her wardrobe—not extensive but well-chosen—was always a point of pride with her. She was an aficionado of discount outlets like Filenes Basement, could spot under-priced item of upscale apparel like a heron spotting a fish. And there were often bargains to be had, as she’d counseled friends, if you weren’t a snob about labels. A lot of those bridge-collection brands, like Evan Picone and Bandolino, could bring out something truly handsome, almost indistinguishable from the outfits they were copying. Guess what I paid for this —it was a game she and her girlfriends used to play when they weren’t complaining about work or men, and Andrea was a champ of it. The cream silk blouse that she got for thirty bucks? Suzanne Muldower had yelped; she’d seen something identical at Talbot’s for a hundred and ten. Andrea now fingered the fabrics wistfully, the way she used to page through her high-school yearbook, amused and embarrassed by who she used to be: the pretension, the innocence, the freckles.
    Suzanne Muldower—a friend since the age of eleven, the one who had known her longest—was the first to arrive. The invitation was last-minute, but Muldower didn’t have much to cancel: just a double date with her microwave and DVD player, she admitted. Melissa Pratt—a willowy blonde with what Andrea privately thought of as a downtown attitude, and slowly ebbing hopes for an acting career—arrived a few minutes later, with her boyfriend of the past eight months, Jeremy Lemuelson, a chunky little guy who worked as a civil engineer in Hartford, owned two vintage Stratocasters, and, because he painted in his spare time, considered himself something of an artist.
    Dinner was nothing fancy, as she warned: a pot of fettuccine with some store-bought pesto, a few side dishes she got at the prepared foods counter at the Carlyle Market—and a big bottle of Vouvray.
    â€œSo what’s the four-one-one?” Suzanne asked, after tasting thepasta and making the obligatory noises of admiration. “You said we were celebrating tonight.” She turned to Melissa. “And I told her, ‘Let me be the judge of that.’”
    â€œBrent bought you a ring, didn’t he?” Melissa put in. She shot Suzanne an I-told-you-so look, premature in victory.
    â€œBrent? Please .” Andrea clucked, smiling beneath slitted eyes. Melissa and she had shared an apartment when Andrea was in grad school, and even then she took a sisterly interest in Andrea’s romantic successes and failures.
    â€œYou got a promotion?” Suzanne’s turn.
    â€œA bun in the oven?” Melissa looked concerned.
    â€œGarlic bread, actually,” Andrea said. “Smells good, doesn’t it?” She trotted out to the kitchen and brought it to the table, a little crisper than ideal.
    â€œI already know. You won the lottery.” Jeremy’s sardonic contribution. His cheek was swollen with half-chewed food, like a squirrel’s.
    â€œClose,” Andrea told him.
    â€œOkay, girlfriend, out with it!” Suzanne reached across the table and gave her hand a squeeze. “Don’t make us suffer.”
    â€œI’m dying here,” Melissa chimed in. “Now give !”
    â€œWell, the thing is…” Andrea looked at the three expectant faces around her and suddenly the lines she’d rehearsed in her head seemed awkward and boastful. “The thing is that the Bancroft Foundation has decided to…reach out to me. They want me to be on the board. A trustee.”
    â€œThat’s amazing,” Suzanne shrilled.
    â€œAny money in it for you?” Jeremy asked, massaging a callus on his right forefinger.
    â€œActually, there is,” Andrea said. Twelve million dollars.
    â€œYeah?” A gentle prod.
    â€œIt’s really generous. An honorarium just for